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23  WES'  .MAIN  STREET 

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CIHM/ICMH 

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et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  nAcessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  mAthode. 


1 

2 

3 

1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

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POEMS 


BY 


GEORGE  MURRAY. 


» 


/ 


NEW  YORK. 

1892. 


I 


« 


■' 


HOFFMAN    PRESS,  NBW    YORK. 


CONTENTS. 


The  Chorister, 5 

The  Young  Hunter  and  the  Fawn,         .       .15 

The  Traveller's  Return, 20 

The  Spring, 25 

Ode 32 

To  Wagner 35 

After  a  June  Night's  Storm,    ►       ...  36 

Song  for  Idlers,  ,. 3& 

Song  of  the  Sailor's  Wife 40 

The  Last  Dream, 41 


POEMS. 


I.    THE  CHORISTER. 


o 


<  j 


Twas  Easter  morn.     The  sanctuary  long 
Had  ope'd  its  doors  to  the  fast  ent'ring  throng, 
Which  soon  had  filled  each  space  where    seat  was 

found, 
And  e'en  stood  ranged,  deep-row*d,  expectant  round. 
Magnificent  assembly!    Varied,  tho\ 
Its  aspect  was,  as  it  was  grand  in  show. 
For  congregated  there  were  gathered  all 
Who  in  that  day  saw  Freedom's  broken  thrall ; 
And  many  more  beside,  of  every  heart. 
Some  to  take  earnest  and  some  trivial  part; 
For  as  each  one  the  season's  gifts  did  price. 
Each  came  with  hearts  attuned  to  sacrifice: 
Gay  Pleasure's  priestesses  and  Fashion's  fawn. 
Who  only  blessed  the  day  because  withdrawn 
Then  was  dull  Lent's  drear  mask  of  penitence. 
Which  forty  fretful  days  the  radiance 
Of  their  loved  deities  had  hid  from  view; 
Enchanting,  haughty,  sweeping  to  their  pew. 
Came  Beauty,  Pride  and  Wealth,  to  whom  the  time 
Seemed  one  for  joy  because  spring's  gentler  clime, 
Succeeding  sombre  winter,  ope'd  fresh  ways. 


THE   CHORISTER. 


By  decking  out  in  all  soft,  rich  arrays, 

To  wake  new  rapture,  envyings  and  awe; 

While  back  in  shadows,  scarce  within  the  door, 

Stood  those  who  this  dark  life's  worst  burdens  bear,*— 

Sorrow  and  want, — the  poor.    What  did  they  there  ? 

Surely  to  them  the  day  brought  no  great  joy ! 

It  freed  them  not  from  poverty's  annoy, 

Nor  lifted  sorrow's  burden  from  their  breasts. 

Save,  'chance,  that  while  the  hour  they  stood  as  guests 

In  that  high  house,  some  gentler  spirit  of  peace — 

Instilled  with  music  and  perfumes  that  cease 

Not  to  rise  from  the  trembling  organ  reed 

And  the  lilies  and  sweet  blooms  rich    banked*  and 

spread 
Round  chancel  and  round  fane — with  subtle  charm, 
Shed  o'er  their  troubled  souls  a  transient  calm. 
There  men  and  youths,  from  pleasure  brief  unbound. 
Passed     whispered    jests    or    light-smiled    greetings 

round; 
There,  too,  was  sneer-lipped  Infidelity, 
Gazing  upon  the  scene  with  faithless  eye 
And  smile  of  scorn,  forgetful  that  his  own 
High-patterned  life  is  possible  alone 
Because  the  light  of  God's  benignant  law 
Through  ages  past  hath  drawn,  and  still  doth  draw, 
This  moth-eyed  and  weak  world  into  its  rays. 
Lighting  the  paths  to  heaven-leading  ways ; 
Forgetting  that  his  wisdom  hath  upgrown 
From  seed  that  in  dim  historied  time  was  sown. 
In  patience  planted,  by  lives  for  God  lived  firm. 
These  seeds'  rare  fruits,  of  century-ripened  term. 
He  plucks,  and  on  their  health  imbibed  grown  strong, 


I. 


^ 


f 


THE   CHORISTER. 


} 


Employs    health's    restless   strength  to   find  whence 

sprung 
Wide  virtue's  tree  whose  bough  doth  nourish  him. 
With  human  memory  we&k  and  reason  dim — 
Which  are  themselves  faulty  reflections  faint 
From  that  One  Source  of  Light  with  which  acquaint 
He  strives  with  crooked  vanity  to  be — 
He,  with  eye  distance-dimmed,  essays  to  see, 
And  seeinj^,  mark  and  trace  with  sure  descry, 
Amid  the  foliage  thick-webbed  on  high. 
The  proper  stem  and  twig  and  bough  and  branch. 
Back  to  the  Root  of  All  from  which  all  launch. 
So  some  do  seek  ;  but  while  the  tangled  twine 
Aloft,  with  'magined  sight  and  judgment  fine, 
They  thread, — following  false  lines  seeming  true, 
And  curving  courses,  which,  while  they  pursue, 
Seem  straight, — their  unwatched  feet,  with  faulty  stride. 
And  many  a  'wildered  slip  and  stumble  wide. 
Lead  them  through  sloughs,  'gainst  thorn  and  bruising 

rock, 
Bringing  them  toil  and  cruel  stab  and  shock. 
Till,  line  all  gone,  weary,  despairing,  sick. 
Lost  in  the  forest  of  their  fancies  thick. 
They  hopeless  die  ;  and  some  of  hardier  mind. 
But  wiser  none,  when  they  at  last  do  find 
Their  search,  keen  led  with  all  the  trusted  light 
Of  learning's  lamp,  with  logic'd  step  aright 
Fruitless  to  follow  virtue  through  time's  shroud. 
Turn  in  presumptuousness  of  spirit,  proud 
In  man's  paltry  knowledge  of  five  thousand  years. 
And  God  and  Heaven,  and  all  the  healthy  fears 
And  blessed  hopes  thereto  connect,  abjure  ; 


8 


THE  CHORISTER. 


% 


Declaring  that  what  good  doth  now  inure 

To  child  of  man,  spontaneous  did  spring, 

Was  fostered,  and  now  fruits  in  that  base  ring 

Of  soil, — which  of  itself  ne'er  bore  but  weeds 

Of  folly,  or  the  rank  and  poison  beads 

Of  evil's  choking  vine, — the  human  heart. 

Ah  !  ye  vain  fools  who  take  such  haughty  part 

For  majesty  of  man  !    Why  do  ye  rend 

From  him  his  attribute  of  noblest  bend  ; 

And  turn  on  him  your  ignorant,  vandal  shears. 

Clipping  his  bough  of  the  best  bloom  it  bears, 

Pure  Faith  ? — faith,  whose  essence,  whose  fairest  flower 

Is  sweet  belief  past  human  sight's  poor  power  : 

When  Reason  faints,  Trust  bright-eyed  still  on  tower. 

But  oh,  my  Muse,  return  to  gentler  themes  ! 

Sure  some  beneath  those  rainbow-tinctured  beams 

That  crept  and  blazed  through  yon  bright  sculptured 

glass. 
Sure  some  within  those  holy  doors  did  pass 
With  proper  mind  ? — sweet  maids  of  simple  way, 
And  boys  free,  fresh  and  fair  as  morn  in  Ma}** ; 
The  new  made  widow  seeking  in  her  grief 
For  some  dim  understood,  far  off  relief  ; 
Gray  men,  still  toiled-tossed,  longing  still  for  rest  ; 
These,  like  the  poor,  came  with  half  ready  breast  ; 
And  last — ^but  oh,  how  sadly  few  were  they  ! 
Were  those  who  came  to  worship  and  to  pray  ; 
Whose  gentle  mien  and  humble,  reverent  care, 
Seemed  to  ray  out  a  peace  upon  the  air, 
A  tranquil  breath,  within  whose  circle  small 
A  quiet  hush  dropped  softly  upon  all. 
But  list !  that  hush  is  spreading,  and  still  spreads  ! 


< 


THE   CHORISTER, 


The  rustling  multitude,  like  barley  heads 
Kissed  by  day's  dying  breath,  did  shift  and  bow, 
Trembled,  and  then  hung  motionless  ;  for  now, 
Commencing  faint  in  distant  alcoves  dim, 
Rose  the  first  notes  of  the  procession  hym". 
Soft,  sweet,  yet  clear  they  came  ;  soft  as  a  bell 
Sounding  on  summer  eve  from  some  far  dell 
Where  peaceful  hamlet  lies  ;  clear  as  a  horn 
Heard  wound  o'er  Alpine  vale  at  wake  of  morn  ; 
Sweet  as  the  bird  of  sorrow's  tend'rest  note, 
When,  pressing  to  the  thorn  her  gentle  throat. 
She  to  the  stars  warbles  her  song  of  wor. 
So  woke  the  strains  ;  but  they  did  ever  gi  ow 
And  swell,  falling  but  louder  yet  to  prove, 
As  with  slow  march  th'  advancing  c  ioir  did  move 
Thtouiih  rrcess'd  room  and  secret  cell,  u.  til 
The  cloister  opened,  and  straightway  aid  fill 
The  whole  grand  lofty  square  such  flood  '^f  song 
As  our  dull  souls  imagine  that  bright  throng 
Struck  forth,  which  hov'ring  o*er  Judea's  plain. 
The  night-bound  shepherds  charmed.    On  trod 

train. 
Their  robes  of  sabled  snow  brushing  the  crowd 
Which  rearward  pressed  upon  the  aisles,  while  loud 
And  louder,  full  of  every  grand  and  rich 
Involvement  of  sweet  sound,  with  every  pitch 
Of  harmony's  infinite  subtleties 
Which  Orpheus-taught  musician,  from  the  keys 
And  pipes  of  organ,  from  loud  tubes  of  brass. 
From  bow-swept  strings,  the  silver  flute's  soft  pass. 
And  the  vocal  reed  of  man,  could  skillful  weld, — 
With  such  rich  range  of  music's  wealth  upswelled 


m 


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the 


il 


lO 


THE  CHORISTER, 


The  mighty  anthem,  a  w;^ve  of  melody, 

A  rolling  torrent  of  tune,  a  grand,  a  free, 

A  glorious  peal  of  praise.    Of  praise  ?    That  form 

And  fine  array  of  pomp,  that  finer  storm 

Of  harmony, — was  all  that  praise  ?    Ah  no, 

'Twas  all  a  mockery  !    'Twas  al?  a  show. 

Not  for  God's  glory,  but  for  man's  delight  ! 

How  could  that  hymn  ascend  to  heaven's  height 

If  no  hearts  bore  it  there  ?    And  oh,  alas  ! 

How  many  hearts,  in  all  that  human  mass, 

Turned  heavenward  that  anthem  to  upraise  ? 

(And  if  the  heart  doth  not  no  lip  can  praise). 

For  those  who  sat  with  silent  breathed  lungs  , 

But  made  a  mock  of  praise  through  other's  tongues  ; 

And  those  who  sang, — ^ah  !  listless  seemed  their  eyes, 

Steps  dull,  and  all  their  manner  otherwise 

Than  spirit  held  !    And  why  not  so  ?    They  did 

A  duty  well ;  and  if  at  their  trained  bid. 

Music  bestowed  her  every  precious  gift, 

'Twas  task  enough.     Then  to  assume  and  lift 

Those  strains  with  soulful  service  to  heaven's  gate,. 

Were  meet  for  those  who  soft  in  cushions  sate. 

But  they,  poor  victims  of  a  hungry  pride, 

A  flattered  ear,  a  love  of  ease  allied 

To  laziness,  or  aught  that  hobbles  man, 

Teth'ring  his  powers  in  an  oft'  cropped  span. 

Each  to  his  little  clayey  idol  clung. 

Nor  sought  to  rise  to  free  those  notes  that  rung 

In  lingering  echoes  round  the  gilded  roof, 

Waiting  with  heaven-bound  hearts  to  wing  aloof — 

Waiting  the  chariots  that  never  came. 

But  stay,  my  hasty  mind  !  thine  is  the  blame 


THE   CHORISTER. 


IX 


Of  those  who,  stubborn  beut  on  censure,  do, 

In  blaming  many,  o*er  look  the  noble  few. 

How  knowest  thou  but  that  thy  travelling  sight, 

In  that  great  throng  did  miss  the  secret  flight 

Of  some  good  hearts  ? — for  ever  noblest  good 

Doth  hide  her  head  'neath  secrecy's  large  hood. 

Perchance  that  very  robed,  melodius  line 

Of  singers  did  contain  some  natures  fine 

With  hearts  too  noble  from  their  tongues  to  part ; — 

For  turn  of  manners  points  not  every  heart. 

Yea,  e'en  among  the  foremost  of  the  fore. 

Where  no  just  eye  could  ever  have  passed  o'er 

And  failed  to  notice  him,  there  stepped  a  youth, 

A  boy  of  rosy  years,  who,  if  forsooth 

Eye  ever  spake  or  poised  head  did  hint. 

Was  spirited  above  the  common  tint. 

His  brow  and  reverent  eyes  were  raised  to  heaven. 

His  useless,  well  con'd  print  was  never  given 

A  glance,  but  hung  loose-clasped  by  his  side  ; 

His  soul  gave  motion  to  his  lips,  their  tide 

Of  sweetness  having  that  full,  tender  reach 

Of  sympathy  which  only  souls  can  teach. 

Ah,  'twas  a  sight  no  stern  censorious  frown 

Dare  wrinkle  on  !    'Twould  draw  joy's  bright  tears 

down 
From  smiling  angels'  eyes  !    But  oh  !  the  sound. 
When  Silence  laid  her  deadening  finger  round 
On  voice  and  instrument,  till,  company 
By  company  and  chord  by  chord,  did  die 
To  dumbness  all  their  notes,  save  his  alone  ! 
Ah,  then,  and  only  then,  was  full  made  known 
Their  single  loveliness  :  e'en  as  the  lark. 


19 


THE  CHORISTER. 


H 


f 


Singing  to  coax  the  bright  sun  from  his  dark 

House  of  clouds  when  the  June  shower  is  past, 

But  yet  while  still  upon  the  sinking  blast 

The  remnant  thunders  roll,  cannot  be  heard 

In  all  the  music  her  sweet  voice  hath  stirred, 

Till  heaven's  tremendous  symphony  is  hushed. 

Thus,  when  to  silence  that  great  song  was  crushed. 

The  lad's  voice  rose,  exquisite  in  relief 

Upon  the  stillness.     Ah  !  if  ever  grief 

Could  enter  heaven,  then  would  it  have  come  in. 

Led  by  that  strongest,  smallest  of  all  sin — 

That  bland  and  smooth  lieutenant  Satan  sends 

When  other  deputies,  to  gain  his  ends 

Of  evil,  all  have  ^failed — the  subtle,  sly. 

Insidious  envy  ;  for  the  hosts  on  high, 

That  faultless,  tireless  celestial  choir, 

Might  well  have  grieved,  envying  earth  such  fire 

And  spirit  of  true  song  as  that  young  voice 

Poured  richly  forth  ; — not  that  it  was  more  choice 

In  tone,  sweeter  in  accent,  or  more  clear 

Than  song  that  many  a  mortal  tongue  could  rear  ; 

Yet  in  each  note  such  tenderness  did  dwell. 

As  forced  the  ear  to  hark  with  honeyed  spell, 

While  every  word  such  freight  of  feeling  bore. 

As  thrilled  the  heart  and  left  it  yearning  sore 

Within  itself  for  loftier  nobleness. 

Such  magic  it  did  hold  that  it  could  dress 

With  beauteous  images  the  dullest  brain 

That  heard  ;  could  ease  of  half  its  guilty  pain 

The  blackest  heart :  and  in  the  arctic  soul 

Could  cause  love's  sun  to  rise  again  and  roll 

The  icy  fogs  of  selfishness  away. 


THE   CHORISTER. 

Thaw  mercy's  spring  and  make  its  waters  play 

In  generous  surfeit  o*er  its  melting  cup, 

And  at  each  other  virtue's  roots  warm  up 

The  sap  of  life  once  more,  making  them  all, 

From  charity's  great  oak,  towering  tall, 

To  the  sweet  violet  of  pity,  bloom 

Into  full  loveliness  and  sweet  perfume, 

Filling  a  soul,  once  waste,  with  verdure  rare  ; 

Turning  Sahara  into  Eden  fair. 

Sure  these  were  wonders,  wondrous  wonders  !    Yet, 

Like  many  a  seeming  marvel  that  doth  set 

Earth's  wise  to  vainly  beat  high  heaven  o'er 

To  find  its  cause,  a  cause  which  at  the  door 

Of  their  own  vision  plain  in  view  doth  lie — 

Too  plain,  alas,  for  note  of  learned  eye  ! — 

They  were  not  wrought  by  the  mysterions  touch 

Of  any  mighty  power  divine  ;  not  such 

Their  origin  ;  but  their  creation  came 

From  cause  which  no  divinity  could  claim. 

Unless  divineness  lies  in  rarity, 

And  whose  best  might  was  in  simplicity  : 

This  was  the  cause  of  all,  and  this  alone — 

A  human  heart  and  human  soul  at  one  ; 

For  such  a  heart  that  young  child's  breast  did  bear, 

And  such  a  soul  was  dwelling  also  there. 

Sweet  child  !    Sign  of  promise,  emblem  of  hope 

For  future  man,  of  all  his  strife  the  scope 

And  final  goal  !    God's  steward  upon  ea^th  ! 

Would  that  thy  song's  great  stream  had  had  a  girth 

Wide  as  this  whirling  globe's  ;  a  life  and  motion 

Deathless  and  ceaseless  as  the  beat  of  ocean  ! 

So  might  the  lips  of  every  human  ear 


IS 


I 


i 


14 


THE   CHORISTER, 


I) 


V  k 


Be  ever  plunged  deep  within  its  clear, 

Life-giving  waters,  drinking  in  their  strength, 

Till  every  heart  should  feel  along  the  length 

Of  all  its  arteries  and  veins  the  thrill 

Of  purging  power ;  feel  the  fresh  blood  fill 

Each  scummed  and  reeking  marsh  and  stagnant  pool, 

Before  its  flushing  torrent,  sweet  and  cool, 

Sweeping  their  filth  and  heating  poisons  out. 

Making  each  alley,  duct  and  channel  spout 

With  sanguine  streams  full,  healthy,  rich  and  bright 

As  the  swift  rills,  that,  'neath  the  dazzling  light 

Of  June's  unclouded  sun  and  blue  heaven's  steeps, 

Dart  from  their  parent  springs'  green,  moss-lined  deeps; 

Making  the  heart  itself  all  undefiled. 

And  pulsing  pure  as  heart  of  little  child. 

Then  might  at  last  man,  finished,  perfect,  creep 

From  his  outgrown  cocoon,  his  weary  sleep 

In  wisdom  blind  and  blinder  love  complete. 

And  in  the  perfect  love,  whose  two-fold  seat 

Would  be  within  the  heart  and  in  the  soul, 

Making  concordant  peace  in  both,  a  whole 

From  what  were  former  warring  parts,  commence 

His  happy  life  ;  his  fears  and  griefs  fled  hence  ; 

His  long,  self- waged  rebellion  at  an  end  ; 

Himself  in  peace  unto  himself  surrend, 

His  own  arch  foe  no  more,  but  his  own  friend. 


2.  THE  YOUNG  HUNTER  AND  THE  FAWN, 


Far  in  a  wide  and  silent  forest's  shade, 

Upon  a  thick  and  fragrant  bed  of  moss, 

Whose  thousand  tiny,  sweet  and  tangled  flowers 

Were  stained  with  blood,  that  from  its  wounded  breast 

Did  ebb  away,  a  gentle  faun  did  lie; 

And  from  its  quivering  lips  and  panting  side, 

Its  short  and  painful  breath  came  gasping  forth. 

Blowing  sweet  incense  soft  upon  the  palm 

Of  a  young  lad,  who,  in  his  tender  hand, 

Bore  up  upon  his  lap  its  drooping  head, — 

The  author  and  the  pitier  of  its  plight. 

For  'twas  that  hand  that  but  a  space  before 

Had  loosed  the  deadly  dart  into  that  breast 

Which  now  lay  throbbing  'neath  his  eye.    And  yet 

'  Twas  not  a  wanton  hand  or  cruel  eye 

That  there  did  knee!;  for  one.  in  misty  dews 

Of  sweet  compassion  had  dimmed  its  wonted  light,. 

The  while  the  other  from  the  unslung  horn 

Had  cast  its  deadly  charges  to  the  wind, 

And  at  some  sought  out  spring  its  hollow  curves. 

Had  filled  with  water  cool,  the  which  it  now 

Unto  that  bleeding  breast  did  softly  lave. 

And  while  he  thus  did  minister,  his  tongue, 

A  melancholy  sadness  sitting  there, 

Did  gently  thus  the  double  office  do 

Of  penitent  and  mourner:  "  Thou  sweet  child,. 


11 
I 


i 


m 


ft ' 

I' 


:1:l 


i6 


THE  YOUNG  HUNTER  AND  THE  FA1VN. 


i! 


i  \ 


\\ 


'[ 


Thou  dumb  infant  of  the  wood!  Alas» 

Poor  hapless  animal,  that  life  so  young, 

So  free,  so  shy,  so  fragile  as  thine  own, 

Should  be  so  rudely  spent !    'Tis  pity  great, 

That  here,  where  Nature  doth  heir  store-house  make 

For  all  her  peace  and  quiet, — even  here 

Must  busy  man  intrude,  and  with  his  Coming 

Bring  pain  and  W6e  where  neither  was  before. 

But  yet  I  am  not  all  without  defence. 

Let  those  faint,  drooping  ears  hear  my  poor  cause.- 

Hear  with  charity,  with  mercy  judge; 

For  charity,  widfe  as  it  is,  could  ne'er 

Cloak  up  my  huge  and  hideous  fault  alone. 

Nay!    turn  not  up  such  soft  reproachful  eyes  ! 

Oh  !  I  would  rather  meet  the  flaming  eye 

Burning  above  the  hungry,  armored  jaw 

Of  some  fierce  beast,  with  stealthy  crouching  paw 

And  lashing  tail,  watching  me  for  its  prey. 

Than  look  into  those  pure  and  purple  depths 

That  make  me  feel  so  like  a  murderer. 

Alas,  had  these  dim  lights  that  are  mine  eyes 

But  burned  one  half  so  honest,  true  and  clear. 

But  owned  a  power  one  half  so  far  as  these 

Possessed  ten  minutes  past,  then  would  they  not 

Have  this  unwitting  hand  so  foul  betrayed. 

For  when  yon  thicket  cracked,  thither  they  flew; 

And  with  their  truer  judgment  all  o'er  thrown 

With  eager  expectation,  misled  quite 

By  quick  imagination's  wish,  they  saw. 

Not  what  was  there  but  what  they  would  see  there , 

And  bade  this  foolish,  witless  hand  to  shoot 

Where  through  the  leaves  did  shine  a  golden  spot, 


* 


•><j 


THE  VOlJrifG  HUNTER  AJlfD  THE  FAWN,  ij 


Which  eagerly  %h^y  ypuched,^-oh  qru^l  fraud  ! 

Was  sure  the  tawi^y  skifi  and  shaggy  fur 

That  some  great,  savage,  bloody  beast  did  wear. 

And  when  I  thought,  in  answer  to  my  act. 

To  hear  the  forest  shake  with  roar  on  roar, 

See  bushes  stripped  of  leaves  and  rooted  up. 

The  solid  ground  itself  torn  up  and  cast 

About  in  the  magnificent  mad  fury 

Of  some  sore  wounded  brute,  Lo!  from  the  bush. 

Rising  as  if  these  little  hoofs  bore  wings, 

Did'st  thou  bound  forth  in  air,  and  here,  at  my  feet, 

Camest  thou  to  earth  again.    There  was  no  roar, 

No  angry  fang  gnashing  to  clutch  on  me. 

No  wounded  strength  destroying  in  its  reach. 

Nothing  that  tricky  reason  might  present 

As  justifier  to  accusing  conscience; 

Only  this  form  of  thine  that  lies  so  still, 

Only  these  piteous  groans  that  from  it  yet 

Do  faintly  heave, — alas!  I  would  their  tones 

Came  not  so  near  unto  the  human  voice, 

For  while  my  heart  doth  grieve  and  weep  to  hear  them, 

They  make  my  superstitious  soul  to  quake. 

Could  things  like  these  make  any  mortal  proud  ? 

They  do  not  me.     But  they  do  make  me  feel 

Like  a  base  coward  that  strikes  where  he  doth  fear 

No  blow  returned;  like  a  smooth  hypocrite, 

That  unto  one  whom  he  hath  grossly  wronged 

Doth  offer  the  cheap  recompense  of  words. 

But  words  are  all  I  have  to  give,  since  that 

Which  I  have  taken  from  thee  I  cannot, 

Nor  any  man,  restore;  and  yet  to  thee, 

Taught  in  a  simpler,  happier  school  than  mine, 


;»| 


--U.-.JJUi^l'.' 


^IWI^" 


l8 


THE  YOUNG  HUNTER  AND  THE  FAWN, 


These  labourings  of  the  heavy  human  tongue 

Are  less  than  nothing.     But  what,  sweet  innocence,. 

Doth  mean  these  kind  caressings  of  my  hand 

With  that  soft  tongue  that  scarce  possesseth  strength 

To  stretch  it  from  its  bed  ?    Thus  do  thy  kind 

Attest  affectionate  good-fellowship. 

And  verily  there  seems,  in  this  soft  touch, 

A  lingering  gentleness  as  though  thou  would'st 

Convey  a  kind  assurance  of  good  will 

And  of  thy  good  forgiveness  absolute. 

Thus  ever  doth  the  kind  and  generous  heart; 

Forgives  whether  pardon  be  asked  or  not, 

But  if  'tis  asked,  with  tears  and  words  that  show 

The  culprit's  suffering,  it  doth  itself 

Begin  to  bleed,  and  its  own  hurt  forgetting. 

Pours  out  its  oil  of  pity  and  affection 

Upon  the  wounds  of  him  who  wounded  it. 

Both  healed  and  healing  in  the  sweet  discharge. 

So  dies  nobility;  without  a  thought 

For  malice  or  revenge,  its  latest  breath 

Spent  but  to  pardon,  soothe,  encourage,  cheer. 

Lie  here,  thou  heavenly  spirit!  This  soft  moss, 

Nature's  best  bed  in  this  her  roomy  house. 

Shall  be  thy  couch  and  bier;  for  no  gross  grave 

Shall  cramp  these  free-born  limbs.     Here  shalt  thou 

rest. 
And  gently  dissolve  into  the  elements; 
But  not  without  mourners.     For  to  this  spot 
Shall  come  the  creeping  tortoise,  the  soft  thrush 
And  tender  dove,  the  hare  and  squirrel  shy. 
The  poor  toad  and  wandering  whip-poor-will, 
Ev'n  the  dark  bat  and  melancholy  owl, — 


i 


^i^ 


THE  YOUNG  HUNTER  AND  THE  FAWN 


19 


Whatsoever  harmless,  gentle  things 

That  dwell  about  this  wood  shall  here  repair 

To  mourn  their  common  favourite  comrade  dead. 

And  others,  too,  will  come  to  weep  for  thee, — 

Those  tender  beings,  who,  in  these  ancient  trees. 

Old  story  says  makes  each  its  separate  home. 

Oh!  I  do  hope  that  when  they  look  on  thee, 

And  these  just  ended  acts  recall, — for  they 

Have  seen  each  act  and  heard  each  speech  in  this 

Sad  tragedy, — they  will  remember  how. 

With  every  act  that  came  as  near  to  speech 

As  dumbness  might,  thou  said'st  '  I  do  forgive  thee; 

And  breasting  thee  in  the  courteous,  noble  race. 

Grant,  too,  to  me  their  pardon  for  the  offence 

Of  having  slain  their  playmate  and  best  friend. 

Then  would  this  solitude  again  assume 

The  pleasant,  deep  and  tranquil  countenance 

Which  I  do  love  so  well;  and  wear  no  more 

These  present  frowns  of  its  stem,  sad  aspect, 

Which  to  unlucky  me, — who  wittingly 

Would  ne'er  have  been,  or  be,  their  cruel  cause, — 

Seem  all  directed,  till  it  seems  as  if 

No  bough  doth  bend  but  it  doth  point  at  me, 

And  every  wind  doth  whisper  *  Murderer! ' " 


IS 


..L;«.,-:V;;»44«!J»U.-i«iiWC««HUIl.l'"^I^'  .kivi.    ^i*>umi 


3.    THt  TRAVELLER'S    WETURN. 

O'er  Hampshire's  snow-heaped  liills  the  sun 
Dropped  we^ward  in  bis  circHn^g  race 

Unseen,  for  driving  snow-clouds  dun 
Hid,  in  a  pierceleis  veil,  his  face. 

A  youth,  amid  the  gloom  and  storm. 
Plodded  his  heavy,  panting  way 

To  where,  hospitable  and  warm, 
A  house4ight  beamed  its  neighbor  ray. 


;l 


m 


'Twas  not  his  home,— long  steps  beyond 
Lay  that, — ^but  ah  !  What  youth  but  knows.. 

Some  time  in  life,  a  place  more  fond 
Than  home  !-^to  such  this  youth  now  goes. 

There  dwelt  his  joys'  eternal  spring. 

The  very  marrow  of  his  mind. 
To  him  6n  earth  the  fairest  thing. 

The  woman  of  all  woman-kind. 


i ' 

i 


And  there,  his  trade-forced  journey  o'er. 
He  thought  to  lose  the  world  awhile,* 

Nor  see  its  sights  nor  hear  its  roar, — 
In  her  sweet  voice  and  tender  smile. 


But  ah,  when  frosts  of  absence  blight. 
How  many  tender  loves  are  slain  ! 


THE  TMAVBLLSirS  XETUXN. 

Faithful  that  love  whopc  Axt  and  Hght 
Can  feed  on  fancies  ffoniithe  A>rain. 


But  \tts^  ^ttgh  ied,  in  fever  «unk, 
For  poison  with  its  food  had  mixed  ; 

Her  ears  of  rumortsxup  hadxirunk, 
And  fancy  on  suspicion  iixed. 

A  word,  as  ligiht  as  winds  t!ii>.t  move 
In  June,  dropped  down  on  guardless  mood. 

And  lo  !  the  blossams.of  iherlove 
Lay  choked  in  jealousy'^  rank  wood. 

But  little  recked  .that  wretched  youth 
What  fiends  had  made  her  heart  their  throne  ; 

He  dreamed  he ^there  reigned  king  in  truih, 
A  s  she  reigned  queen  within  his  .own. 

Thus  by  surprise  his  wits  were  slain, 
When  no  kiss  did  her  greeting  grace  ; 

But  soon  surprise  gai2«  place  to  .pain, 
At  view  of  her  cold,smilele6S  iace. 

Long  he  implored  and  questioned  deep. 
Then  vowed  his  constancy  in  vain  ; 

She  answered,  but  put  not  to. sleep 
With  her  replies  his.gcief  orpain. 

For  though  her  .heart  perceived  himtrue, 
Prometheus  pride  held  upper  sway 

And  would  not  let  confession's  dew 
Wash,  with  her  stains,^his  pangs.away. 


I 
I 


I'i 


22 


THE  TRAVELLER'S  RETURN. 


■  '■: 


:| 


Thus  broken  beneath  an  unjust  wrong, 
Pale  as  a  cloud  at  dawning  grey, 

Too  crushed  for  words,  for  tears  too  strong, 
He  stepped  to  take  his  homeward  way. 

In  vain  her  parents,  'gainst  the  storm, 
Besought  him  tarry  till  the  day; — 

SAe  gave  but  in  half-hearted  form, 
That  half-consent  which  meaneth  nay. 

He  went;  and  gentle  sleep  dropped  down 
Upon  that  house  and  all  within; — 

On  all  ?     Nay,  sleep  from  one  had  flown, — 
That  one  lay  weeping  for  her  sin. 

Ah,  woman,  woman!  had  those  eyes 
But  dropped  their  honey  on  his  heart. 

Thine  now  would  not  give  forth  those  cries, 
Nor  in  that  restless  anguish  start. 

Why  shudder  at  the  bitter  blast  ? 

Sure  not  so  cold  to  him  the  storm 
As  thy  cold  words  remembered  last, — 

Comparison  would  make  it  warm. 

Why  damp  with  ceaseless  tears  thy  bed  ? 

'Tis  useless  now  to  moan  and  chide; 
On  colder  couch  than  thine  his  head 

Hath  found  a  rest  to  thine  denied. 


Why  Heaven  implore  to  haste  the  day  ? 
No  day  can  ever  break  again 


M 


THE  TRAVRLLEICS  RETURN, 

So  brightly  that  its  glories  may 
Rid  thy  heart  one  hour  of  pain. 

It  c£  me,— the  day, — up  smiled  the  sun 
And  looked  abroad ;  but  swift  he  drew 

About  him  cloudy  curtains  dun, 
As  to  shut  shameful  sight  from  view. 

The  mountain-cradled  winds  awoke 
And  fluttered  forth ;  but  with  a  cry 

Of  fear  their  easy  flight  they  broke. 
And  shuddering,  moaning,  back  did  fly. 

The  clo-  is  crept  stealthy  round  heaven's  rim. 
As  they  did  fear  to  cross  its  vault 

And  look  below;  in  East,  black,  dim, 
A  massy  mourning  pall  they  halt. 

Ye  fearful  elements!  well,  well 
May  horror  halt  your  flying  cars ! 

On  sadder  sight  dawn  never  fell, 
Than  yonder  lonely  hillside  bears. 

See  where  he  lies!  cold,  still  and  white 
As  the  snow  that  doth  his  body  cover. 

But  yesterday  he  stepped  full  light! 
This  morn  a  corpse, — last  eve  a  lover! 

But  yet,  bright  sun!  ye  gentle  wind! 

Sweet  moon,  and  lesser  lamps  of  heaven! 
Have  pity!  oh,  to  her  be  kind. 

Whose  life  to  endless  grief  is  given! 


n 


«4 


THE   TRAVELLEICS  MSTVRN. 


Hide  not  your  beams,  nor  fi^ver  ligfht, 
Your  harps  be  nevei  harsh  nor  rough! 

Oh  soothe,  not  sadden,  her  dark  night; 
Remorse  is  punishment  enough ! 


4.    THE  SPRING. 

Why,  gentle  spring,  why  hide  away 

'Neath  these  dark  rocks  and  boulders  grey  ? 

Why  secret  veil  thy  lovely  face 

Ip  this  unknown,  untrodden  place  ? 

It  fits  thee  not,  this  home  of  thine, 

This  sunless,  sad,  rock-walled  ravine. 

Is  it  because  thy  modesty 

Fills  thee  with  fears  that  thou  would'st  be 

Mocked  for  thy  plain  simplicity. 

If  that  thou  came  to  dwell  abroad. 

Matching  thy  charms  against  the  hoard 

Of  charming  things  that  Nature  spreads 

O'er  breezy  hills  and  sunny  meads  ? 

Or  dost  thou  think  thy  song  would  seem 

Too  plain,  too  humble  in  its  theme, 

To  mingle  with  those  joyous  lays 

Glad  birds  and  gladder  breezes  raise  ? 

If  these,  or  like,  the  reasons  be 

Why  hermit-like  thou  hidest  thee 

Here  in  this  dungeon  spot, — list  then  : 

Two  green  and  flowery  hills  I  ken. 

Bounding  a  meadow's  southern  side, 

Between  whose  grassy  slopes  doth  hide 

A  sun-kissed,  hazel-shaded  dell. 

There  thou  in  a  green  cup  may'st  dwell. 

Moss-lined  from  bottom  to  the  brim; 


nil'  r, 


26  THE   SPRING. 

And  round  thy  bubble-fringdd  rim 
The  shy  white  violet  shall  bloom, 
Shedding  for  thee  its  rare  perfume.  . 
And  later,  when  the  summer  sun 
Shall  higher  in  his  course  have  run, 
The  wild-rose  will  her  petals  pink 
Sweetly  unfold  above  thy  brink, 
While  ferns  their  pointed  fronds  unroll, 
Stretching  athwart  to  keep  thee  cool 
And  sheltered  from  the  heat;  to  you 
Such  welcome  will  be  rendered  due 
As  this.     But  for  thyself,  thine  own 
Bright  face  and  voice  of  sweetest  tone, 
'Twill  not  be  long  when  thou  shalt  see 
What  homage  will  be  paid  to  thee. 
Phoebus,  each  morn  when  he  doth  rise. 
With  rosy  kiss  will  ope  thine  eyes. 
Each  night,  when  Phoebus  far  is  sped, 
The  stars  shall  watch  above  thy  bed, 
And  make  thy  face  their  mirror  bright, 
To  see  if  they  their  silver  light 
Do  proper  shed  abroad.     With  day 
The  shepherd  lads  will  foot  their  way 
Behind  their  flocks  to  those  fresh  meads 
Where  flows  the  rill  thy  full  cup  feeds; 
Whose  even  waters  ever  keep 
The  pastures  green  for  kine  and  sheep. 
And  in  whose  depths  their  tongues  do  find 
A  nectar  sweeter  than  the  wind 
That  from  their  gentle  nostrils  blows. 
Itself  far  sweeter  than  the  rose. 
On  pleasant  summer  holiday, 


THE   SPRING. 


27 


The  roving  lads  to  thee  will  stray, 
And  prostrate  round  thy  margin  thrown, 
Bend  to  thy  lips  their  rosy  own. 
To  draw  the  diamond  sparkling  drink, 
And  round  thy  mossy  cushioned  brink 
Linger  delightedly  and  long. 
To  watch  thy  bubbling,  hear  thy  song, 
Or,  far  down  in  the  crystal  deep. 
Study  the  patient  snail's  slow  creep; 
The  free  and  lawless  boy  to  thee 
Shall  thus  resign  bis  sovereignty. 
The  rustic  beauty,  village  bound 
O'er  field,  instead  of  going  round 
By  highway,  will  her  path  forsake. 
Some  drops  in  her  pink  palm  to  take 
From  thee,  and  'twixt  her  dainty  lips 
Draw  in  two  dainty,  dainty  sips; 
And  then  (for  beauty  ne'er  was  known 
To  shut  her  eyes  when  near  her  shone 
Aught  that  her  beauty  might  reflect) 
She  will  employ  thee  to  detect 
Some  dimple  new,  or  budding  grace. 
Within  the  blossom  of  her  face. 
And  envious  sigh  to  see  in  thee 
Complexion  clearer  than  hath  she. 
But  thankful  for  thy  bashful  tongue. 
She  will  rise  and  trip  along, 
And  leave  thee  to  the  birds  and  bees, 
That  on  the  bushes  and  the  trees 
Sit  silent  perched;  for  they  have  come. 
From  busy  hive  and  bough-built  home, 
To  learn  that  glorious  art  of  thee, 


^  TJIE  SPRING, 

The  art  of  tuneful  harmony; 

And  none  so  soft,  or  none  so  sad, 

None  so  loud,  nor  none  so  glad, 

But  from  tby  wide-ranged  song  may  learn 

Some  blithesome  trill,  or  tender  turn, 

To  add  unto  the  little  store 

Of  sweetness  that  each  knew  before. 

The  bee  can  teach  his  golden  wing 

A  drowsier,  sleepier  tune  to  sing, 

By  listening  near  that  mossy  rock. 

Beneath  which  lazy  flows  thy  brook; 

The  sparrow,  when  the  bubbles  break, 

Can  learn  a  shorter  chirp  to  take; 

Of  soft,  low  tones  an  endless  store 

The  choice-eared  thrush  may  ponder  o'er. 

Where  from  thy  brimming  bowl's  low  lip. 

With  gentle  fall  thy  waters  slip; 

While  for  a  merry  song  and  gay, 

A  mirth-awakening  roundelay, 

Unto  the  rising  sun  to  bring, 

A  sole  and  new  sung  offering, 

The  lark  will  close  attention  give 

Down  where  thy  laughing  brook  doth  live 

In  a  round  of  pleasure,  dancing  on 

Over  its  pebble  bed  sloping  down. 

But  when  all  these  have  taken  flight. 

Scared  by  the  dusky  face  of  night ; 

When  shadows  veil  day's  last  red  gleam, 

And  starry  silence  reigns  supreme  ; 

Winging  her  lonesome  flight  along. 

Will  come  the  queen  of  feathered  song. 

Poor  Philomel.     And  she  will  brood. 


li> 


THE  SFRING. 


99 


Itt  sad,  most  meUnchoty  mood, 

Long  on  some  branch  of  sleeping  flowers, 

As  if  her  wing  had  lost  its  powers 

And  never  more  in  air  would  spread  ; 

And  dropping  her  grief-laden  head 

Upon  her  breast,  her  pensive  sight, 

And  ears  that  woe's  sad  notes  delight, 

In  trance  of  sweetest  sadness  bind 

To  that  dark  spot  in  its  mazy  wind. 

Where,  over  some  smooth,  rounded  stone, 

Thy  silver  rill  drops  with  a  moan 

And  sigh  of  sorrow. 

All  these  to-morrow 

May  be  thy  happy  joys,  sweet  spring, 

If  thou  to  that  brigntdell  wilt  bring 

Thy  lovely  flood,  leave  this  dark  home 

Unto  that  sunny  one  to  come, 

There  'mid  these  endless  joys  to  dwell. 

O  seal  this  fount,  this  wasted  well ! 

This  bubbling  cup  let  silence  fill ! 

And  trace  a  straight  and  speedy  track, 

By  subterranean  channels  black, 

To  where  prepared  for  thee  doth  wait 

A  life  whose  changeless,  one  estate 

Is  joy  and  gladness  ! 


Thus  long  ago  a  youth  made  plea 
Unto  a  sylvan  spring  ;  but  she, 
Regarding  not  his  earnest  tongue. 
Still  bubbled  up  and  flowed  along, 
Filling  her  rocky  house  with  song 
And  music,  smiles  and  mirth. 


il 


30 


THE    SPRING. 

"  She  mocks  !  "  lie  thought,  and  he  grew  wroth  ; 
"  She  mocks  me  ! "  and  in  sad  offence, 
He  bid  a  cold  adieu  and  hence 
His  wounded  presence  took. 
Long,  restless,  wandering  years  passed  o'er  him  ; 
Then,  back  returning,  spread  before  him, 
His  youth's  remembered  home  doth  range. 
But  oh  !  'twas  sadly  new  and  strange  ! 
Nothing  was  as  it  was  before  ; 
'Twas  not  the  aspect  that  it  bore 
Of  old,  but  only  the  old  name, — 
In  name,  but  not  in  fact,  the  same. 
Where  were  the  paths  he  once  had  trod  ? 
Where  were  the  sunny  hills  whose  sod 
With  nodding  daisies  thick  was  strown  ? 
Where  were  the  groves  he  once  had  known  ? 
Alas  !  the  ruthless,  puffing  plough 
Up-shared  those  daisied  hillsides  now  ; 
In  the  shuddering  woods  the  shrieking  saw 
Surfeits  his  fanged  and  cruel  jaw  ; 
No  flocks  to  those  fields  now  were  driven, 
No  herds  at  eve  lowed  up  to  heaven  ; 
The  birds  to  other  groves  were  fled, 
The  lark  did  make  his  dewy  bed 
In  other  meadows  far  away  ; 
Nowhere,  in  all  his  vision's  play. 
Gleamed  one  loved,  memoried  sight.    Yet  stay  ! 
Out  'twixt  two  gray  and  stony  walls, 
A  thin  stream  plashed  with  gentle  falls. 
:   r»  saw  ;  his  heart  'gan  quicker  beat ; 
•straight  his  lost  and  stranger  feet, 
^     'i^'^ger  helplessly  astray, 


m 


^.i 


THE  SPRING^ 

» 

Did  thither  bend  their  hasty  way. 

And  there,  oh  glad  and  welcome  sight ! 

Gurgling  and  bubbling,  clear  and  bright. 

Gushed  up  that  ancient,  steadfast  spring.' 

"  Spirit  of  constancy  !     Thou  thing 

Of  patient  steadfastness  ! "  he  cried, 

"  Through  all  these  years  that  I  have  tried 

To  find  in  pleasure's  poison  cup 

Some  happiness,  or  followed  up 

Deluding  Fortune's  faithless  wheel, 

The  woe-begetting  gold  to  feel, 

Hast  thou  thus  happily  dwelt  here, 

Nor  known  a  woe,  nor  felt  a  fear. 

Nor  drawn  a  sigh,  nor  dropped  a  tear  ? 

Ah,  would  in  foolish  youth  I  had 

Thee  my  good  preceptor  made  ! 

Then  peace  and  joy  might  now  be  mine. 

Even  as  now  they  still  are  thine." 


31 


f 


u  ■ 


5.    ODE. 

Heavenly  akhemist  1  that  when  calm  night 

Hath  driven  the  fiery  Phoebus  from  the  sky, 
Riseth  in  East  to  follow  on  his  flight, 

Holding  thy  steady,  burnished  shield  on  high. 
Whereon  to  gather  all  his  burning  beams, 

Transfusing  them  of  all  their  fire  and  heat, 
Upon  the  parched  earth  to  pour  them  back 

In  cool  and  silver  showers,  thus,  in  what  seems 
A  soft  reproof,  making  his  dark  retreat 

Full  of  a  grace  his  presence  near  did  lack, — 


I 


Why  hast  thou  hid  from  earth  so  long  away  ? 

Though  absence  oft*  will  burnish  rusty  love, 
*  Twas  needless  to  make  thine  so  long  a  stay. 

Grieving  me  with  pretence  my  love  to  prove. 
I  do  not  love  the  gaudy,  flippant  day. 

Bearing  upon  her  gay  and  careless  wings 
The  sights  and  sounds  of  folly,  strife  and  sin, 

The  which  she  doth  in  ceaseless  stream  outpay. 
Turning  to  nought  the  earth's  most  lovely  things, 

Music  to  moans,  peace  to  a  fretful  din. 

But  when,  low  in  the  rosy  western  sky, 
The  tender  planet,  sinking,  still  doth  stay. 

With  the  soft  light  benign  of  her  mild  eye 

To  heal  earth's  wounds  and  wash  its  tears  away. 

And  make  it  fit  to  greet  the  gentle  night; 


ODE. 

Then,  divine  enchantress  !  from  some  hill, 
Whose  dewy  slope  doth  eastward  open  lie, 

'Tis  sweet  to  watch,  in  heaven's  dusky  height. 
Each  hollow  cloud  with  silver  radiance  fill. 

Giving  bright  promise  of  thy  drawing  nigh. 

But  when,  before  thy  sovereign  shining  form, 

These  splendid  ushers  melt  unseen  away. 
Then  doth  it  seem  as  if  earth's  face  did  swarm 

With  million  of  kind  elves,  who,  in  thy  ray, 
Could  only  find  a  lantern  soft  enough 

To  light  them  at  their  delicate  sweet  task. 
As  with  swift  sorcery  of  magic  art 

They  round  to  smoothness  Nature's'rugged  rough, 
Or  on  her  ugly  forms  bind  beauty's  mask, 

And  e'en  to  beauty's  self  new  grace  impart. 

Yon  cliff  that  gloomy  frowned  an  hour  ago, 

Is  turned  a  silvery  fair  battlement, 
Topped  with  its  sentry  cedars*  shining  row, 

And  all  its  cataract  banner  bright  unbent; 
Where  then  the  lake  lay  black,  forbidding,  dark. 

Ten  thousand  diamond'ripples  light  the  vale; 
While  from  the  forest's  depths  comes   forth  no  more 

That  soft  but  soul-disturbing]moan, — but  hark! 
Sweet,  low,  delicious  whispers  fill  the  gale, 

As  if  each  Dryadjlaughed  that  sighed  before. 


33 


But  thou,  kind  spirit,  another  land  dost  light, 
Than  this  gross  earth  more  delicate  and  fine ; 

For  when  the  eye,  the  brain's  clear  pilot  bright. 
Doth  lead  aloft  where  thou  in  heaven  dost  shine, 


h"  '- 


34 


ODE. 


Thou  fiirst  the  wide,  unmeasured  mind's  domain 
With  fancies  fair  and  meditations  high; 

Then  Envy,  Care,  and  all  the  demon  horde 
That  harrow  up  the  soul  of  man  to  pain, 

Fly  from  the  field  and  sheathe  their  weapons  by. 
And  frail  Content  doth  wander  safe  abroad. 


6.     TO  WAGNER. 


Not  the  soft  tones  to  lull  a  wine-drows'd  ear, 

Or  honey  drop  on  tongue  of  sweet-fed  brain; 
Not  the  thin  strains  that  school  girls  like  to  hear, 

Dreaming  the  while  in  fancied  love's  mock  pain; 
Nor  tripping  notes  to  physic  sadness'  tear, 

Nor  throbbing  ones  to  make  it  flow  again. 
Not  these  the  trivial  limits  of  thy  skill, 

Homer  of  Music!    But  when  thou  dost  fill 
The  wind-devouring  pipe,  or  touch  the  string, 

Then  the  poor  homesick  soul  wakes  with  a  thrill 
Of  rapture,  soaring  on  thy  music's  wing 

From  earth,  its  land  of  exile  dark  and  chill. 
To  dwell  a  space  in  its  own  realms,  and  bring 

Thence  joys  to  make  earth's  life  a  happier  thing. 


} 


7.     AFTER  A  JUNE  NIGHT'S  STORM. 

O  what  a  day  of  lovely  light 

Dawns  forth  from  out  the  stormy  night! 

Kind  Nature,  with  her  water  bowl, 

Hath  washed  from  the  earth  each  stain  and  soil. 

And  it  shines  in  splendor  bright. 

From  the  wood,  the  myriad-twinkling  gleam 
Shows  where  the  sun's  first  radiant  beam 
Is  caught  by  each  polished,  refreshened  leaf, 
As,  kissed  by  the  breeze  a  moment  brief. 
It  twists  on  its  slender  stem. 


The  cataract  from  the  cliff  doth  pour 

Its  foaming  waters  with  a  roar 

That  seems  imprisoned  fast  to  hold 

The  thunder's  echoes  that  pealed  and  rolled 

At  midnight  the  heavens  o'er; 

Whilst  all  the  lightnings  that  lit  the  night. 
Seem  to  have  sunk  in  those  waters  brighC; 
Where,  each  to  its  seven-fold  elements  torn. 
With  a  hundred  hues  they  now  adorn 
The  flood  in  its  tumbling  flight. 

The  meadow  brook  tranquil  and  bright  doth  flow 
Where  daisies  their  smiles  to  buttercups  throw. 
And  each  congratulations  give, 


AFTER  A  JUNE  NIGHTS  STORM, 

O'er  the  joy  on  such  a  day  to  live, 
On  such  a  day  to  grow; 

Where  kine,  that  cowered  in^fear  'neath  the  oak- 
When  the  thunder's  crash  at  midnight  broke, 
Knee-deep  in  clover  contented  low, 
Sweefning  the  breeze  with  each  breath  they  blow. 
And  for  the  milk-maid  look; 

Where  the  lark  soars  singing  from  its  bed; 
Where  floating  butterflies  drift  o'erhead, 
And  birds  from  all  the  bushes  sing; 
Where  overjoyed  seems  each  live  thing. 
In  the  glories  round  it  spread. 

Fair  June !  the  days  are  only  thine 

When  Nature  thus  breathes  out  her  soul  divine;. 

When  e'en  the  saddest  mood  of  man 

May  be  changed  to  joy  unmixed  with  pain. 

By  a  draught  of  her  gladdening  wine. 


37 


I' 

v 


I 


8.     SONG  FOR  IDLERS. 

A  nap  in  the  woods  on  a  soft  June  day, 

What  lazy  joys  excel  ? 
How  delightfully  Nature  steals  away 

The  senses  by  her  spell ! 

How  soft  a  couch  the  mosses  make! 

No  canopy  so  light 
As  ferns  that  gently  wave  and  shake 

Their  fronds  of  emerald  bright ! 

And  then,  for  a  draught  of  drowsiness. 

Can  subtlest  drug  compare 
With  the  sight  of  clouds  that  lazy  press 

Through  the  sapphire  of  the  air  ? 

These  soft  white  hands  doth  Nature  lay 

Over  her  patient's  eyes, 
And,  lo!  sink  griefs,  cares,  pains  away. 

And  peace,  sweet  peace,  doth  rise. 

How  softly  now  on  the  senses  fall 
What  >  ice  were  harshest  tones; 

The  crow's  rude  cry  seems  a  cuckoo's  call, 
The  magpie  a  honey-bee  drones; 

And  soothing  is  the  jay's  hoarse  screech, 
As  song  of  nightingale; 


I  . 


I 


SONG   FOR   IDLERS. 

The  squirrels'  chattering;  in  the  beech, 
As  crickets  at  twilight  pale. 

From  every  voice  sweet  music  flows, 

And  from  th«  music  peace; 
Till,  the  mind  o'crburdened  with  repose, 

All  acts  of  being  cease. 

When  Nature  such  arts  as  these  employs 

On  one  in  an  idle  mood, 
How  may  one  e'er  resist  the  joys 

Of  a  nap  in  a  green  June  wood ! 


39 


11 


9.    SONG  OF  THE  SAILOR'S  WIFE, 

Far  out,  blue  Ocean!  o'er  thy  wave, 

A  growing  sail  I  see. 
O  joy!  it  brings  my  true-love  home, 

My  true-love  home  to  me. 

No  more,  when  winter's  midnight  storms 

Rush  furious  o'er  thy  deep. 
Shall  I,  in  trembling  tears  and  prayers, 

My  sleepless  vigil  keep. 

No  more,  when  summer's  sunny  winds 

Stoop  down  to  kiss  thy  face. 
In  disappointed  hope  shall  I 

This  beacon  cliff-top  pace. 

My  fears  this  day  are  laid  in  grave. 

My  joy,  like  breaking  morn, 
Doth  ever  brighter  grow  as  still 

Yon  sail  is  nearer  borne. 

Kind  Ocean,  speed  yon  ship  along 

With  all  your  winds  and  tide; 
Till  one  that  now  doth  tread  her  deck, 

Shall  tread  earth  by  my  side. 


■iwi'.i.LiiiN<»ii'ii»«i|.ii  ■■!■)#■ 


. 


10.    THE    LAST    DREAM. 

In  a  dismal  room  in  a  city  garret  high, 
Where  a  lamp,  low  burning,  casts  a  feeble  ray, 

Death-sick  of  fever  a  suffering  child  doth  lie, 
And  a  woman,  watching,  weeps  the  night  away. 

Sadly  she  weeps,  low  bending  o'er  the  form 

Whose  little  lamp  of  life  must  soon  grow  dark — 
That  life  her  love  had  watched  through  sun  and 

storm. 
Her  sorrow  now  beholds  whose  dimming  spark. 

By  day,  by  night,  for  many  a  weary  week, 
Had  she  thus  fostered  that  beloved  life  ; 

But  now,  to-night,  her  heart  doth  well  nigh  break 
To  see  that  that  dear  life,  now  left,  is  brief. 

For  'tis  not  only  fever  on  that  brow. 
Nor  fever's  fires  that  fill  those  soft  sunk  eyes  ; 

Nay,  the  blush  that  spreads,  the  fire  that  glows  there 
now, 
Doth  from  a  different,  deeper  source  arise. 

'Tis  death's  first,  gently-faint,  approaching  touch — 
For  death  hath  sweet  as  well  as  awful  guise  : 

Often  it  Cometh  with  a  softness  such 
As  scarce  to  show  when  forth  the  freed  soul  files  ; 


Li 


42  THE   LAST  DUE  AM. 

But  rare,  as  now  with  this  young  innocent, 
It  comes  with  brightness,  not  with  shadows  dark, 

A  bloom  like  health's  to  once  pale  cheeks  is  lent, 
From   sunken  eyes  seems    beaming   life's  bright 
spark. 

But  why  look  those  bright  orbs  so  fixedly, 
As  if  brick  walls  no  longer  bound  their  sight  ? 

Why  clasp  those  little  hands  so  rigidly  ? 
Those  parched  lips  why  break  in  smiles  so  bright  ? 

*Tis  the  immortal  soul,  already  fluttering  free — 
Still  bound  to  earth,  yet  beating  heaven's  air — 

That  gifts  that  sight  most  wendrous  things  to  see. 
Those  listening  ears  far  whisperings  to  hear. 

Bright  must  those  visions  be,  and  sweet  those  sounds. 
For  wakened  memories  o'er  those  features  fleet  ; 

And  list !  that  voice  rises  o'er  pain's  strait  bounds, 
A  fervid,  wild,  breaks  yet  ecstatic  sweet : 


'i 


<t 


Hark,  mother  !  I  hear  the  rushing  brook  ; 

'Tis  the  same  sweet  sound  of  long  ago  ; 
I  hear  it  singing  beneath  the  rock. 

And  laughing  where  the  shallows  flow." 


'I 


^'  'Tis  only  the  falling  rain  on  the  roof,  my  child, 
Hush  !  softer  speak,  thy  fancy  runneth  wild."  • 

^'  Nay,  mother,  no  fancy  decelveth  me, 
For  I  see  the  water  shining  now  ; 
And  look  !  on  the  bank  is  the  tulip  tree, 
With  the  swing  still  hanging  from  the  bough  ! " 


THE  LAST  DREAM, 


43 


*•  Nay,  'tis  but  the  towering  factory  stack 

Thy  fevered  brain  doth  paint  a  budding  tree  ; 
Its  flame,  from  yon  high  window'd  walls  shot  back. 
Is  the  gleaming  water  that  ye  think  ye  see." 

'•Oh,  look  !  there's  father  and  little  Ned 
Standing  on  the  green  bank  there 
Where  the  brook  in  a  circling  pool  doth  spread, 
O'erhung  by  dainty  maiden-hair. 

"  And  see,  they  have  my  little  boat. 
My  pretty  boat  that  father  made  ; 
They've  set  it  in  the  pool  to  float, 

And  spread  its  sail  beneath  the  shade. 

♦•  Oh  hasten,  hurry,  mother  kind  ! 

We'll  join  and  play  with  them  a  while- 
Why  do  ye  hang  so  slow  behind  ? 
Why  weep  ye  when  they  happy  smile  ? 

•'  Come  !  we'll  play  all  afternoon. 
And  then  we  will  together  all 
Find  out  the  moss-grown  table-stone 
That  rests  beside  the  water-fall. 

"  And  there  we  will  our  supper  lay. 

When  the  setting  sun  shall  slant  along. 

And  father  will  tell  a  story  gay. 
And  you  shall  sing  a  pretty  song; 

We'll  have  a  long,  glad  holiday 
Till  the  stars  begin  to  throng— 


I 


44 


THE   LAST  DREAM. 


**  But,  mother!  Oh,  they  leave  the  pool! 
Why,  why  do  they  haste  so  soon  away  ? 
Why  wait  they  not  'neath  the  alders  cool  ? 
Oh,  why  will  they  not  our  coming  stay  ? 

"  See  how  they  beckon  us  draw  neai, 
Yet  still  do  ever  further  flee — 
Alas!  how  swift  they  disappear! 
How  dim,  how  faint  their  shadows  be! 

**  And  now  the  brook  seems  running  dry, 
I  cannot  hear  it  laugh  or  sing, 
Its  bank-side  ferns  \.  nd  \>    ssoms  die ; 
I  cannot  see  the  tulip-swing. 


**  The  very  rocks  do  melt  away; 

The  trees  seem  withering  where  they  stand; 
The  sun  grows  dark!    Kind  mother  pray 
Come  closer,  closer  hold  mine  hand. 


*'  But  hark!  what  wondrous  sound  I  hear? 
A  music  rapturous,  divine, 
Like  voices  softly  singing  near, 
A  thousand  voices  sweet  as  thine ! 

*'  Tell  me,  whence  comes  this  melody, 

That  stills,  that  drives  away  my  pain  ? 
Ah!  happy,  happy  would  I  be, 
If  ever  thus  I  might  remain! " 

*'  'Tis  only  the  bells  that  chime  the  hour  of  morn 
When  labor's  weary  children  wake  from  sleep- 


in 


THE  LAST  DREAM,  ^5 

Bnt  oh!  how  gladly  would  my  toil  be  borne, 
If  I  that  smile  on  thy  dear  face  could  keep! " 

**  And  what  is  this  light  that  fills  mine  eyes, 
So  soft,  so  radiant,  so  fair; 
That  seems  from  no  place  to  arise, 
Yet  falleth  softly  everywhere  ?  " 

"  *Tis  only  the  light  in  the  East,  my  child,  of  the  morn- 
ing. 
The  light  we  both  have  «een  so  oft  before — 
Alas,  alas,  another  day's  bright  dawning, 
I  fear  together  we  shall  see  no  more ! " 

"  Hush,  mother!    The  voices  are  dying  now, 
And  a  sweet,  sweet  peace  doth  o'er  me  creep, 
And  I  feel  a  soft  breath  on  my  brow; 
Hush,  for  I  fain  would  fall  asleep." 

Alas!  no  need  those  trembling  lips  to  hush, 
No  need  to  beg  that  sobbing  voice  be  still; 

The  grief  that,  falling,  all  but  life  doth  crush. 
On  both  had  set  its  silent,  silent  seal. 

Full  well  she  knew  he  felt  the  eternal  morn ; 
j  That  from  his  sleep  he  would  no  waking  know ; 

)  The  last  loved  heart  that  loved  her  now  was  gone; 

That  she  from  thence  alone  through  life  must  go. 

Oh  saddest  thought!    No  more  that  attic  room. 
Which  scarce  the  sun  for  one  brief  hour  could  fill. 

For  her  with  those  bright  flowers  of  joy  would  bloom, 
Which   spring   from  a  child's  caress   and   loving 
smile. 


46 


THE  LAST  DREAM. 


^  No  I  fe  to  cherish  bu,  her  bleeding  own. 
Than  this:  to  labor  for  one's  life  alone  ? 
Thrice^blest  the  hearts,  when  pierced  by  sorrow', 

Bv^-"'-' '"  '!"','  "«"'""•  "^y  "■><»  sweet  relief 
By  openmg  p,ty-s  gates  on  lives  that  cling 
Famnng  to  them,  crushed  'neath  the  common  grief. 

But  when  griefs  poison  entereth  the  heart 
Whose  safety-valves  of  love  may  never  ope 

There  s  naught  but  death  can  e'er  relief  impa  t  - 
What  misery  when  death  becomes  a  hope^ 


woe, 


sorrow's 
elief 
ion  grief. 


e, 
art,— 


